


Protector

by GentlemanInRed



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair keeps us all sane, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Loghain has the Anchor, Multi, Politics, Slow Burn, tags will be adjusted with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29397396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentlemanInRed/pseuds/GentlemanInRed
Summary: He lengthened his gait, forcing her to scurry behind his boots like a puppy and trip once on an uneven flagstone. "Whatever lurid stories are told about Haven's history,Sister," he said, "it is within the borders of Fereldan. This pathetic detante between mages and Templars is ravagingmycountryside and murderingmypeople. Did the Divine truly believe that she could invite such a powder-keg as this Conclave, invokingonlythe authority of Val Royeaux, and I would sit homeknitting?" His deep voice had lowered in pitch and raised in volume at each inflected word, becoming little more than a snarl at the end.Canon divergent AU.  Alistair is King but also Warden Commander.  Loghain rules as Lord Protector as his ally.  Loghain attends the Divine Conclave and receives the Anchor though he will not become Inquisitor.  Much, much is changed.
Relationships: Relationships to Be Determined - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Allow Your Sympathies the Length of A Table

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many changes in this AU that I think it would be distracting to read them at this point, but other than the ones that will be clarified as you read, I'll try to keep you abreast.
> 
> My lovely beta machiavellianmask suggested that the most important things you should know prior to this chapter are 1: Loghain was not able to bring himself to abandon Cailan at Ostagar, but his forces were not able to save Cailan's life. 2: Loghain did not denounce the Grey Wardens after Ostagar.

  
Steel blue eyes narrowed as they took in the chaos of heraldry that bedecked the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Chantry gold and scarlet loomed like red-crested vultures, but many of these wealthy Orlesian sisters brought their wealthy Orlesian entourages, peppering the grey stone of the courtyard with the hostile glitter of uniforms and of masks. Some of the armor there looked so heavy with gold it would be soft as the underbelly of a turtle, and Loghain's fingers itched to test it with the worn and extremely serviceable weapon that hung from his saddle. Beyond the interlopers and their barely-legitimate Chantry authority, there were also barricades of gleaming silver Templars, and gaggles of mages, some in elegantly adorned robes and others in barely more than travelers' rags.

In truth, there were fewer mages than Loghain had expected. Perhaps they had avoided this area until the Conclave began, not trusting the Divine's mandate to protect them against a plethora of antagonists. Perhaps in another room, or another courtyard, only a few nervous Templars and mercenaries watched the proud, sneering leaders of the mage rebellion.

He honestly did not care.

He swung down from his saddle, not waiting for his small honor guard to do the same, and deliberately unbuckled his frog from the saddle and returned it to its accustomed place at his belt. The weight of the blade was a palpable reminder that he feared no one in that place, neither renegade mage, renegade Templar, or supposed divine authority. Striding forward, he noted the many eyes that followed him and several tentative steps made in his direction. The person who in the end intercepted his path was a fairly young Sister- or perhaps Mother- with clear fair skin and murky, troubled brown eyes.

"Lord Protector," she greeted him, and the softness of Orlais on her tongue made his spine sharpen. "I- that is to say, we did not expect your presence at the Divine Conclave." Her tone was apologetic, but the words were just short of accusatory, and she was not a good enough player of Orlais' twisted little Game to hide the fact that she was fishing for information.

He lengthened his gait, forcing her to scurry behind his boots like a puppy and trip once on an uneven flagstone. "Whatever lurid stories are told about Haven's history, _Sister_ ," he said, "it is within the borders of Fereldan. This pathetic detante between mages and Templars is ravaging _my_ countryside and murdering _my_ people. Did the Divine truly believe that she could invite such a powder-keg as this Conclave, invoking _only_ the authority of Val Royeaux, and I would sit home _knitting_?" His deep voice had lowered in pitch and raised in volume at each inflected word, becoming little more than a snarl at the end.

The young woman paled as Loghain spoke, and even though her cassock clearly showed a higher rank than mere Sister, she did not argue with his mode of address or introduce herself. Instead, she said placatingly, "I am certain Most Holy chose the Temple of Sacred Ashes because it is a place that few on either side would dare profane with bloodshed. Our presence here is a diplomatic one only, and representing only the Chantry, Majesty, not--"

There she stopped, her lips moving without sound, because Loghain had stopped on his heel, casting her a vicious, imperious glance. "What in the Maker's grace did you just call me?" he asked, and sounded more disbelieving than angry.

"I- ah-" she took three steps back and fluttered a hand in front of her chest. "I am sorry, Lord Protector, I do not know what-"

Loghain shook his head and snarled, "You _did not expec_ t. You are certain. You _do not know._ Get out of my sight, girl, and tell Divine Justinia to meet me herself or send me a priest who is not sorry."

A wit in a quarterly had once described Loghain Mac Tir as "panther-like" and the description suited him, though many might think it referred only to his black hair, customary black garb, and piercing gaze. They had not seen Loghain like this, pacing and snarling down corridors that were, if not deserted, quickly cleared by his passage. He had waited for an hour in the elegant, austere room provided him to sit out the Divine's current meeting. An hour, and as he watched the rich red-amber beeswax of the candle burn down toward a second mark, he realized that the damned woman had to be stalling him. There was not much time before the Conclave was slated to begin, only a little more than another mark on that candle. That should have been plenty of time for him to say his piece and ensure that his land was adequately represented. But it would not be if she dawdled in other 'meetings' till there was simply no time for them to speak.

Perhaps she thought he would slink back into the audience then with his tail twixt his legs. That thought triggered the first grit-teeth snarl. Then Loghain began to roam, stalking through halls, ignoring stares and whispers, seeking more and more deserted or opulent places where Justinia might be holding her 'meeting.' 

It had been a mistake to wait for her convenience at all. This- none of this- was about _her convenience_ , and he would make that very clear when he strode into whatever corner she'd hidden herself in and interrupted her 'other business.'

There was likely a more political and expedient way of finding the Divine than stalking random corridors and mapping the complex in his head, but he was too on edge by the entire state of affairs to bother trying to flag down someone official and no doubt wade through their prevarications and excuses. The Holy Mother who had guided him to his waiting room had been polite but nearly silent. Perhaps, he thought, he shouldn't have lashed that first foolish girl so harshly with his tongue.

There was something in the air here that made his palms itch, that made his teeth feel like they would lengthen and sharpen in his jaw. A feeling he had not experienced since the last Blight, since the last spurt of hot black blood on his cheek, and not one he welcomed again.

The air was thick with tension. A jagged electric anticipation hung in it, amid the weight of suspicion and hatred. Every breath drew with it a sense of inevitability, of finality. Every breath drew in a sense of plummeting toward something.

"To hell with that," he growled beneath his breath, "Fereldan survived an Archdemon. It will not fall to civil war. I will not allow it."

He stopped at the end of a corridor, a dead end with a small alcove holding an elaborate black and gold urn meant to represent Andraste's ashes in effigy. Around it had been piled soft white flowers of Andraste's Grace, and dried sweet-smelling herbs that included a bright violet sage that had dried to dust, powdering the table beneath it with faded purple. Loghain stared at it for a moment as his mind tried to keep up with his racing heart. He rested a hand against the table, herb fuzz and wet petals crushed beneath his large, callused palm, and fought down the surge of sorrow and of loss that had snuck up on him. Like an undertow, like a breaker wave, it crashed into his earlier anger and left nothing but pain and a self-hate that clenched in his stomach and sent hot bile burning up his throat.

Everything he had ever loved except Fereldan was gone. Ashes, like that stupid ceremonial urn meant to evoke. All but Alistair, and the further the unrest spread, the more danger could befall him in his efforts to support and build Fereldan's Grey Wardens. Everything that mattered to anyone he'd ever loved was gone except Fereldan and its young King. His eyes burned but there were never any tears, and he choked it all back, flicked flowers and herbs off his hand with a too-rough gesture, and turned back from the end of the hall.

It was then that he heard it. A thin, faint cry. _"Someone, help me!"_

A woman, Orlesian, in deep distress. His rage flared again, violent and hot. How little this church-imposed armistice meant, that women were being assaulted in the Temple itself! And it rankled, because once he flung open the door and stopped this potentially disastrous idiocy, it would doubtless turn out she was some noble's pampered pet mage from Montsimmard who was accustomed to simper behind her fan at her patron's atrocities.

His boot heels slapped the stone floor harshly as he strode toward the sound of the pleas, and he flung the door open with far more force than was entirely necessary, a raucous boom splitting the air as the heavy wood hit the wall. "Just what in the Maker's-" he snarled, before he took in the scene before him.

Before something... fell. No, it was he that was falling.

He picked himself up from a raw, bruised heap on uneven rocky ground. A scraped palm rubbed blood across his cheek as he cleared a wetness from his eyes. Had he been crying? No, nonsense, he never cried. Something must have been in the air, something harsh and vile...

He blinked his eyes clear, and the air indeed looked vile. It was a noxious, gleaming green, twisted with darker motes, hung over with cloud and shadow that felt more like ink or some wicked deep sea creature than any normal clouds. His body felt heavy. His shoulder wrenched. When he took a few steps forward he staggered on a limp, on a damaged knee.

He swore under his breath. The knee was an old injury, and as he was an older man, easy to agitate, but it always made things difficult for weeks. Not something he'd wish to court when in an unfamiliar, hostile place.

 _Magic_. This had to be some kind of sick magic. He lowered his hand to the familiar weight at his hip only to find the scabbard still swinging against his thigh but the sword itself absent. He swore again, a harsh snarl that ought to have echoed among the rocks but instead seemed swallowed by them. Continuing a litany of curses, Loghain unbuckled his belt, snapped off the frog and dropped it, and took the scabbard in one hand and his belt in the other. A length of fine leather and some hollow seasoned wood wouldn't be much use in a battle, but damned if these guttersnipes would catch him unarmed.

He limped forward. His footsteps made no noise on the sand and rock. The only noise, apart from his curses, was a steady deep rumbling, like some Dwarven forge, or distant thunder without end. Pain shot through his leg with every step, and after an experimental swing on his bad shoulder, he switched the belt to his dominant hand.

At the edge of a promontory, taking an assessing glance down the narrow path ahead, he first saw them. They stood there, staring at him, as beautiful as they had ever been, and broken but still standing. Pale, swaying, they fixed him with their eyes.

He scrambled down the bank toward them, desperate, before he remembered this was magic and they weren't- they _couldn't be_ \- real, and he took a step backward again. But they were near to him now, near enough for him to see blood specked through Maric's sun-gold hair, to see the way that Cailan's clothes draped wrong over his crushed ribs. His heart couldn't take this. His heart could not survive seeing the ligature bruises around Anora's throat again, while she stood there staring at him with eyes so similar to the ones he saw in the shaving mirror each morning.

This mage would kill him. These demons would tear his heart to shreds. He couldn't survive seeing them there, so broken, so beautiful, so strong--

He took one step forward, faltered as his knee twisted, then took another, more firm step.

Maric and Rowan. Cailan. And Anora.  
His arms lifted from his side, to do what, he didn't know. Then Maric spoke, in that familiar voice that dragged both velvet and acid down Loghain's spine.

"Lord Protector," he said. Maric's voice had never held that much scorn. Loghain flinched and stumbled and Cailan stepped forward, spat blood down his crushed jaw.

"As if you could ever protect anything," he hissed.

Anora lifted her head as elegantly as she ever had, which only served to bare the bruises on her throat more fully. She fixed her father with a look of pure hate and as she spoke, he saw- Maker's breath- some of her teeth knocked out.

"All you know how to do," she said, "is _ruin_."

Rowan's arms went around her, her silent baleful gaze as terrible a laceration as their broken, wounded words. Loghain's arms, lifted to hold, or comfort, or what he did not know, lowered, and like the coward he had always been, he ran.

He ran, tripping over rocks, not caring how his body fought him, how pain wracked his every step. He found stones, and he climbed them, and he ran again. When he went down, he wept into the dust, and hated himself for it. How he could cry, in this place that wasn't real, but couldn't cry over their too-real pyres. He wasn't a man at all. He was just some piece of nothing shaped into one, the placeholder for the hero his country required. Why Alistair bothered with him at all was beyond him. He was just an old, pathetic fool running from the beautiful people he had loved and had failed to protect.

  
Ahead of him, something changed. A glow, an outline- something like a woman's form. He didn't hear a voice, precisely, but the very pulsing, growling thunder in the air around him seemed to form the word, "Hurry!" From the top of a promontory of rocks, she stretched her hand down to him.

Loghain had never believed in the Maker, never believed in grace from on high, and he certainly did not believe he would see it that day. But he was desperate, and her hand was right there, and he forced his ragged frame to climb that cliff, tearing his clothes, leaving coarse smears of his own blood and his makeshift weapons behind.

He took her hand.

Waking was like swimming up from the depths of a frozen lake. He seemed to come to it kicking and fighting, till he sat up with a gasp and felt exhausted by the effort. He was on an unfamiliar bed, its sheets tightly arranged like a sickbed, in a room with wood walls sparsely decorated with religiously inspired portraits. The air smelled like sweat and elfroot. Loghain's body felt heavy, though the various hurts he remembered from-- had that been a dream?-- were absent, his head ached as if it were attempting to crack his skull in two, and the palm of his left hand burned as though he were inches away from using it to snuff a candle flame.

Ser Cauthrien was at his bedside, and she made a small noise as soon as he moved, searching his face with her large eyes. She didn't speak, but she had never been the sort for useless conversation. Her complexion was slightly sallow and the soft skin around her eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep. He wondered how long he had languished in that magical prison.

As natural as it was to see his trusted shadow at his bedside, there were incongruities in the room. Firstly, there were guards on the inside of the door. Two men, whose faces he recognized and whose names swam up from the depths of his groggy memory. They lounged at either side of the narrow door, but they were fully armed and armored. There was also a man he did not recognize: an elf, with a smoothly shaved skull, dressed in traveling clothes of fur lined grey wool, slumped in a chair across the room, perhaps in some sort of doze.

"Ser?" Cauthrien said. "How are you-"

His voice cracked when he first attempted to answer, and he cleared it, sipped a little of the water she offered. "Better than I might have expected. Have they apprehended the mage?"

"Mage?" she repeated. "There was a mage? What happened at the Conclave? What do you remember?"

It was unlike Ser Cauthrien to be so abrupt or so demanding, and the very real desperation in her voice and her expression struck Loghain like a shock of cold water. The elf in the corner had also awakened, and was focused on their conversation with large storm grey eyes.

Loghain gathered himself. His headache was intense, and the more he tried to focus on what had happened to him, the more it seemed to drive hot knives into his brain. "I... do not remember it all. I was at the Conclave. There was..."

Involuntarily, he let out a faint noise of distress and clutched at his skull as he tried to delve into memory. "Then I was somewhere else. It must have been a spell. It was... there were things that are not _possible_. And then there was a woman..."

"The Conclave was destroyed," said Cauthrien, and her tone was soft, too soft. "By a power beyond any we have seen. I do not like to think that any mage has the power to tear apart the very sky, to unleash horrors like we have seen these days you've been lost to us. They said." She stopped herself, cleared her throat. "The forces that found you said that you stepped out of the Fade itself. I do not like to put stock in such madness, Ser, but that mark upon your hand-"

Every word she said was measured, the speaker trustworthy, yet to Loghain they seemed to be a jumble of inanities. They made no rational sense. His headache must have mixed up her speech. He could not believe in a force that had torn the sky, he could not believe that the cruel spell that had hurt him had sent him bodily into the Fade. He was no mage. It simply was not possible. That the Conclave was ruined... this he could believe. After the apostate had destroyed Kirkwall's Chantry, it was clear how violent and how decisive this internecine war would be. But her last words struck him. His hand did feel strange. As if flame flickered less than an inch away from it.

And as if thinking of it triggered something, that sense of sensitized heat changed, twisted, and suddenly it was wracking, invading pain, agony that pulsed up his arm. It felt like deja vu, as if his body had felt that pain while his mind drifted divorced from it, but it was vicious and he despised it. He saw a flare of brilliant green light, like the sky in that... that place... flash from his palm, so bright it lit Cauthrien's face in its sickly glow. As the pain diminished, the light faded but did not disappear. A poison green glow hovered, it seemed permanently, on Loghain's hand.

"What in the Maker's grace is _that_?" he growled.

The question was not exactly rhetorical, but he did not expect an answer. It was something of a surprise when the elf in the corner responded, in a rich, cultured voice. His accent was not Fereldan, nor did it particularly sound like any accent Loghain had previously heard. Perhaps it was Dalish, though there were none of the traditional markings on the man's face. "What the mark is, precisely, we cannot say. What I have determined is that it is indelibly connected to the Breach in the sky. As the Breach pulses and widens, so does the mark on your hand. It took considerable time and effort to prevent it from killing you."

Loghain would have liked some time to process those words. It seemed that his aching skull had not fabricated Cauthrien's words. There was a... a Breach in the sky, and this magic glow was tied to it. He did not reply, as his feelings and thoughts wheeled drunkenly.

In his silence, Cauthrien spoke again. "Solas," she tilted her head to indicate the elf, "believes that because the mark is connected to the Breach, it could potentially be the key to closing it. To fixing this entire Blighted mess. That is the only reason that he was permitted to see to your care."

"Permitted?" It seemed inadequate as the first word Loghain spoke to attempt to make sense of this nonsensical situation, but it seemed a telling word. A telling word in what Ser Cauthrien was not saying, and what new and perilous terrain he was treading on.

Ser Cauthrien's lips twisted. "The pilgrims here in Haven, and the remnants of the Chantry forces gathered by the Divine, have taken the link between that mark and the explosion at the Temple to indicate your complicity. They believe you were responsible for murdering Justinia."

"I see," Loghain said dryly. That certainly explained the additional guards. No doubt the majority of his own forces were outside, putting out a visible reminder that any lynching party would not only be violently rebuffed, but also that summarily executing the leader of a country would bring inescapable retaliation. He rubbed his jaw. "I suppose they have not actually considered how I would go about orchestrating this catastrophe, what my motivations could possibly be for inviting my country to devastation and ruin, or why I would finish my master stroke by dropping, half dead and weak as a kitten, out of the fucking Fade."

"They are frightened and grieving," Solas said. "Not rational."

"It is only whispers, so far," Cauthrien added. "But venomous ones. The Former Divine's right and left hands- Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and Sister Leliana- must also be considered hostiles. However, they believe Solas that your mark can be the key to resolution, so they will not act against us directly. I believe that they still hope to arrest and try you for these ridiculous charges, however, so we must be cautious."

"Leliana," Loghain mused. "Sister Nightingale, they call her. A former Orlesian bard turned religious. I suspected her as a spy during the Blight, but she proved a steady friend to Alistair and Brosca, and her actions in the protection of the Divine drew our attention due to their ruthless loyalty. A loyalty to an individual, not a country or a sect. And Seeker Pentaghast... was the young woman who protected Divine Beatrix from that assassination plot, yes? Though I would not classify either of them as reasonable, since their devotion seems so _devout_ , they are both highly intelligent women. Invite them, and only them, to visit me at their earliest convenience. As I do not believe I will be leaving this bed soon, we will increase the guard inside this cabin to six, they will have bared steel, and the ladies will not be permitted within six feet of me. But we will talk, we will pool our resources, and I can hope to put to rest their suspicions."

Cauthrien nodded, and Solas said, "Pooling resources is wise. The Seeker has a substantial force, but it is nothing compared to what the Protector of Fereldan could bring to bear. And unless that mark can aid us in closing the Breach, we are all doomed, regardless of our loyalties."

Loghain narrowed his eyes. "Why are you speaking of forces, Solas? I did not receive the impression that our adversary was one that could be defeated by force of arms."

Though he had asked the question of Solas, Cauthrien answered, her familiarity with him as his trusted second allowing her to be concise and efficient. "When the Breach pulses, it opens smaller rifts throughout the land. These rifts, and the Breach itself, spew a constant flood of demons. Enough to task any force and to devastate the countryside."

Loghain swore and clenched his fists, a wave of nausea and fury almost eclipsing the second burst of agony that flared as emerald light erupted between the fingers of his fist. "Demons. Are ravaging my countryside. This is- Haven is remote! There are no keeps within a day's ride of here. These are farms, hunting lodges, a fishing village. They have no defenses. I- You should have told me this immediately."

He swung his legs off the bed, fighting the weakness of his limbs and the sudden grey spin of his vision. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except ensuring that demons were not massacring defenseless farmers.

"Ser," Cauthrien said, reaching out to steady him, her grasp firmer than it needed to be on his arm. "The Chantry forces are doing what they can, and we have to look foremost to your safety."

"My safety be damned," Loghain snarled. He wanted to be kind to her. He wanted to explain. In the wake of those horrible moments in the Fade, he wanted so much to form the words: _You don't understand, this is all I have left_. Instead, he ripped his arm free of her grasp, stumbled, and fell, bruising his hip on the small desk a few feet from the bed.

His vision was still not steady, but his eyes were as they fixed on her. "You will send Jaderick on my fastest horse directly to Denerim. He is to pull the garrison and have them march here posthaste. In their absence, the city militia will keep order, bolstered by the provisional garrison at Lake Calenhad. You will then contact Sister Nightingale and Lady Seeker Pentaghast. I require their counsel this evening, within the hour if possible. Go, Ser Cauthrien."

She stared at him for a moment. He could see her consternation. Here he was, swaying on his feet like a damned invalid. But in the end, these were his commands and she would obey them. He had never had any doubt. It took only that single moment, and then she saluted and left the room at a fast warrior's lope.

Loghain allowed himself to sag against the desk for a breath, and then one more. His head lowered to his chest, and his eyes burned at his weakness. He shook his head violently, as if he could shake away his pain and his thoughts as easily as a mabari shook off water. His eyes landed on the elf, still in the corner, watching him with an inscrutable expression and clear, intense eyes. "You," Loghain said. "I must be in the field no later than tomorrow. Do whatever you must to make it so."

Solas climbed slowly to his feet. His head tilted, he approached, and when he was close, stretched out one hand to touch it lightly to Loghain's forehead, and then touched the other around the pulse at Loghain's left wrist, and then to the mark itself. He frowned. "Tomorrow will be difficult, however... yes, I believe that it can be managed. And I agree wholeheartedly with your urgency." He stepped back, and both of his hands swept behind his back, clasped in a way that struck Loghain as strangely regal. "In order to do this, you will need to sleep, uninterrupted, from the moment after your meeting till midmorning. Shall I prepare a draught to aid in this?"

"You will doubtless have to," Loghain muttered. He could not imagine sleeping while this chaos and devastation reigned around him, practically unchecked.

Solas nodded, as if he had anticipated that answer, and went from the room to an antechamber near the exit door. Loghain supposed that was where he kept his kit for medicines and potions. A part of him was pleased that it was within the cabin, for as little as he trusted the elf he had barely met, he would have felt strangely adrift if both Cauthrien and Solas left him at once.

Still, in the absence of any eyes but his guards, and without anything pressing to do, Loghain allowed himself to sit on the edge of the bed and rest. His body still felt heavy and sluggish, pain wracking him from the mark at intermittent periods. Now that he realized that each flare of light coincided with more demons landing in his fields to torment simple peasants, he looked upon that pain with even more jaundiced an eye.

After a moment of rest, he got up, fought his swimming senses, and made his way across to a second desk on which he had seen paper and an inkwell and pen. He sat at that desk's chair and wracked his brain. It was difficult to think, but the ever present burn of the mark on his hand almost seemed clarifying. He used its agony the way he had taught himself to fight through wounds on the battlefield, to use the pain and the bleed to sharpen his senses. He made a list of the communities and farms he remembered from the area, from his map survey earlier in the year and from tax reports, which he always oversaw, despite the mind-numbing nature of the task, in order to watch for corruption on the part of the arls and teyrns.

He missed some, and despised himself for it. What was the point of poring over those reports, of painstakingly drawing each new dam or farmstead, if he could not bring up that information when it was needed? He was bent over the desk, palm against his forehead, left hand's fingers clenching and unclenching impotently, when the door closed again and Ser Cauthrien swept back into the room.

Loghain looked up at her, and she looked back, startled. "They are here, Lord Protector. Should I ask them to wait...?"

It was a simple phrase, but at first, Loghain could not parse her meaning. Then he realized what she meant. He sat there in fever-sweat stained clothes, his hair tangled and braids worn. To see such important guests, the leaders of what might be powerful enemy forces or powerful allies, she would have expected him to wash up and change his clothes. He wished it had occurred to him, as greeting them in such a state might seem disrespectful, but more than a single thought or purpose could not seem to penetrate the stabbing pain in his head.

He shook his head and Cauthrien firmed her lips, but turned and opened the door. One more of his guard entered, followed by the two women, and succeeded by another guard. Loghain stood, despite the fact that doing so made the room spin and his stomach threaten to spill whatever potions had been forced between his sleeping lips on to the floorboards.

Still, he studied them as best he could. The dark-haired one, the Lady Seeker, was a firestorm of barely contained fury. She stalked into the room in a manner that reminded him of himself, a leonine stride that was pieces of seasoned veteran and pieces of will and temper, her hazel gaze fixed on him. She did not stop at the required distance until his guards drew blades, and then took one hesitant step back, still within the area he had declared sacrosanct, still not ceding that territory. She held herself with a nobility and authority that he had taken years to learn, yet to her it seemed as natural as breathing. She had scars on her face, and her dark hair, which must have been quite long, was braided and tucked out of the way around her head in a crown. Her breastplate, he noted, showed the symbol of her Order, not the Chantry, even though her loyalty to Divine Justinia had brought her here. It was an incongruity, and his long life had taught him that incongruities were always important.

Sister Nightingale was as tall as Cassandra Pentaghast, but slimmer. Her clothes were recognizable as a Chantry cassock, but only barely, with a hood that almost hid her Titian red hair, and a surcoat of chain maile. She was pale, and the sort of lovely that would look young long after she was not, her eyes that curious pale color that, like the sea, might look blue or green or grey depending on the light. They were cold and shuttered, unreadable, and yet he was certain that she was reading everything in the room, from the lingering scent of his sick bed to the words he'd scrawled on the parchment in front of him. If she did not have the sort of memory that froze a moment in time to be perused again in detail, he would eat his boots.

Before either woman spoke- and the Lady Seeker looked as if she were about to- Loghain raised a hand. "I apologize for the state of my appearance, Lady Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Leliana. I have only been awake for a little over an hour, and events are too dire. As well, Solas has informed me that I will be unavailable after this meeting until mid morning tomorrow, so we have much to discuss in little time."

Again, the Seeker seemed as if she would speak, but this time Leliana cut in smoothly, her voice as smooth and unreadable as her expression. Soft-spoken, still that Orlesian bard of rumor beneath the lay sister. "Do you recall what happened at the Divine Conclave, Lord Protector Mac Tir?"

"I do not," Loghain replied firmly. "If I was truly in the Fade, as I have been told, it is likely that the violence of that encounter has damaged my memory around that event. I will add that I did not have anything to do with the explosion at the Temple, though of course you have little reason to accept my word on the matter. I was at the Conclave because the war between the mages and Templars has its primary stage in my countryside, and while I have little care for the Chantry, as it often seems only another arm of Orlesian politics, I did not dislike Divine Justinia and nor did I oppose the Conclave itself, though I believed I deserved to be a part of its ruling. It is inconceivable to me how you could believe me complicit in an act that damaged my country and nearly murdered me."

"Pretty words," the Seeker snarled. "But they conveniently evade the fact that this would not be the first time you committed an atrocity out of supposed good intent. And they do not explain _that_." She gestured furiously to the glow that clung, sickly, to Loghain's hand.

Incensed at her tone and her dogged pursuit of a motivation he considered ridiculous, he matched her snarl for snarl. "We do not have the time for me to explain my _decades_ of rule to you, nor will I continue to defend myself against clumsy, baseless accusations!"

Cassandra's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, but quick as a flash, Leliana laid a restraining hand on her arm. Leliana gave Loghain the sort of appraising glance an archer might give a target, and a chill ran down his spine. "Why did you invite us here, Lord Protector?" she said.

He drew in a breath. His hand lifted to his forehead, and he knew that it shook, and that everyone in the room marked it. Inside, he cursed viciously at his weakness. "I have sent a runner on my swiftest horse to the garrison at Denerim. My troops will be here as soon as they can, to aid your forces in combating demons and protecting this greater community. I have made a list, as best as I can, of the farmsteads, lodges and small villages in the vicinity of Haven, and I hope to send small expeditionary cavalry forces to each to investigate their status. However, in the days I have been insensate, I am aware that you have been doing my job for me, and that you have far greater knowledge than I do about the threat we face. It has even been hinted to me that you have a plan regarding this mark and the Breach."

Leliana fell into calculating silence. It had clearly not escaped her that his garrison was potentially more than aid to their beleaguered forces, but also would tip the numbers drastically in his favor should they determine to be enemies. He hoped that she also realized that were he the sort of man who would tear a hole in reality just to strike a blow against the Chantry, he would also have posted troops closer to mop up in the aftermath, and moreover, he'd have troops spilling over the Orlesian border as they spoke, taking full advantage of the mournful shock of the rest of Thedas.

Cassandra, on the other hand, had an expression cross her face that seemed almost, barely hopeful. "Solas has been studying the mark while he tended to you. He believes that it can be used to close the initial breach, the one at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. We hope to take you and a small force through to the Temple to test this theory. We should also test the mark first on one of the many smaller rifts on our way."

Loghain wanted to laugh. He could barely stand, and soon he was meant to be marching through the valley, in the presence of armed enemies, fighting to stitch together a wound in the sky so egregious that his imagination would not give him even the faintest image of what it might look like. Yet he did not have any better idea. It was a last chance.

"If this bedamned thing can seal the Breach," he growled, "then it will do so, even if it kills me."

Solas interrupted, his smooth voice startling Loghain though, of course, he had been in an adjoining room all along and easily able to hear their discourse. "If I may. Lord Protector Mac Tir requires several hours of uninterrupted rest if I am to get him into a condition to even attempt this. Unless there are further issues to discuss, may I suggest the plans for this assault be coordinated with Ser Cauthrien?"

There was a moment of silence, and then both women nodded decisively. After they left, Loghain sagged, and he did not fight off the guard that helped him limp back to his bed. The enormity of the calamity spun in his thoughts, a dizzying weight, names scrawled in black ink swam behind his eyes, but the worst of it all were the echoes of the Lady Seeker's words. _It would not be the first time you committed atrocities_ , she'd said, and he realized with a sick and dawning clarity that if he had truly been in the Fade, the broken images of his beloved dead might not have been mere demons. They might have been memories, imprinted upon the Fade. Those words might truly have been Cailan's, and Anora's.

_This would not be the first time you committed an atrocity out of supposed good intent. All that you can do is ruin._

Solas settled at his side, a brown ceramic mug of some potion in his hand. Loghain held up a hand. Although all he wished was to fall into oblivion. "Wait. There is a real chance that I will not survive our expedition tomorrow. I will not leave Fereldan undefended. Cauthrien! Paper, please."

"Ser," she said, and there was something tense in her voice, something he could not recognize. It troubled him, but he was already scrambling a quick note. Though the outside of the scroll was addressed to Warden-Commander King Alistair Theirin, inside he wrote only: 'Alistair- I need you here. -Loghain.'

Solas made him lie back, and he was at once drinking the bitter, dark liquor that Solas poured between his lips, and the world around him faded into a haze of dreamless sleep. 


	2. My Heart Calls To Me In My Sleep, I Cannot Turn To It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of only a few chapters that follows the plot of DA:I, albeit loosely. No new warnings. 
> 
> But we get an Alistair! And boy is he cute.

Loghain could not imagine what Solas had done while he slept, because mere hours had changed his condition so drastically. If the elf had used blood magic, Loghain would neither be surprised nor upset. Not when the result was that the dizziness, the lassitude and the headache that had plagued him the previous afternoon were gone, and he faced the day's events with a startling clarity. He was not at peak condition. That would have been a miracle to rival the hole in the sky. He was still exhausted, his bones still carried a week's pitched battle worth of aches, and the mark on his hand flared with its customary agony in increasing intervals.

Ser Cauthrien was not present when he woke, apparently ensconced in a heated discussion of the day's plans, and neither was Solas. There were the two ever-present guards, one of whom spoke to the contingent outside in order to fetch a page with soap and water. The water was, blessedly, heated, as it was cold in the cabin when he stripped off his stinking clothes. He washed away the acrid sick-bed sweat with firm, practiced efficiency. Since he was going straight back into the field, a whore's bath would be plenty, but it felt good to wipe away the sudsy grime and to smell lavender in the air. He undid his braids, soaped his hair and scalp, and scrubbed the cloth through his hair until he could feel none of the tell-tale slick of soap in it. It was long and thick enough that it would not dry for hours in this cold, but it could not be helped.

Cleaned, he put on padded knee-length trousers, a linen shirt, and a padded gambeson. He did not intend to strap on the full plate armor he usually wore over the padding. They needed to move quickly and its weight would tire him far too soon. However, he did avail the page to help him affix pieces of it over the long scale hauberk he'd requested: cuisses, codpiece, gauntlets and gorget. His boots were already reinforced with metal to defend from hamstring attempts, and to add a rather cruel weight to any kicks. No one had _ever_ accused Loghain Mac Tir of fighting fair.

Dressed, he braided his wet hair and held his helmet in the crook of his arm as he exited the cabin. The guards stationed there exited with him. The bracingly cold air of the Frostbacks hit him like a slap, and then-

The first thing he saw was the sky. It was not blue, nor the gunmetal winter hue he might have expected. It was not deep grey with scudding clouds. It was _green_ , the same poisonous color as the light from his hand, which seeped through his gauntlet as if it did not exist. High in the sky, slowly rotating, was a point of viridian luminance, for all the world like a twisted, malformed second sun. His mind balked at the enormity of it. 

Solas had said the Breach threatened everyone, but in Loghain's mind this had somehow translated as 'everyone in this part of Fereldan.' That thing threatened the very world.

The second thing he saw were the people. There were, perhaps, a hundred of them. They were composed of Haven's small population, of the pilgrims that had arrived either for the Conclave or the Sacred Ashes, a contingent of Sisters, and what looked like a small militia. Nothing well armed or trained to combat, which was a relief, because the blame and hatred on their faces was troubling. Loghain had few friends, was accustomed to deal with those who disliked or even despised him, and in many cases the feeling was mutual. He did not like the fact that his small force was essentially stranded in hostile territory, that the guilt they so plainly assigned to him might, at a single word from a clever tongue, turn this crowd into a mob, and that his own honor guard was not large enough to stop them should they turn into one.

No wonder Sister Nightingale had not shown her hand in the talks yesterday. If he had not readily agreed to their request, they could have forced the issue, as dangerous as that might be politically in the aftermath. No doubt had the discussion become more hostile or Loghain recalcitrant, she would have done so before his troops could arrive. Their militia was well-trained, and present even though he could not see any soldiers. The crowd, despite its obvious loathing, was quiet, weight shifted but not a forward step taken as the Lady Seeker and Ser Cauthrien approached.

Without preamble, Cassandra said, "We already have camps and scouts positioned through the valley, but the word from them is not good. If we are to have any hope at all, we must move. I had intended to guide you myself, Lord Protector, but Ser Cauthrien has insisted she be at your side. So shall the three of us depart?"

Loghain settled his helmet into place. "Let us," he said.

The trek was icy, perilous and fast. They passed along what looked barely more than a goat path in the snow, with soldiers and civilians racing by them in the opposite direction.

"Do you truly remember nothing that happened at the Conclave?" Cassandra asked, as they jogged uphill.

"Nothing of use," Loghain replied. "I remember arriving. I remember cooling my heels for an hour in a waiting room, and growing angry, and then-- nothing."

"You were angry," Cassandra said.

"I am often angry where political grandstanding is concerned, Lady Seeker. I suspect you are as well. If I was capable of blasting a Breach into the sky every time an Orlesian upset me, we'd have no sky left."

They fell into silence after that, until they had reached the top of the hill. Cassandra called for the gates to be opened to a fortified bastion bridge. As they passed the soldiers, half in livery and half in a mish-mash of studded leather and peasant clothes, Cassandra spoke again. "They say you fell out of the Breach. Some say they saw a woman behind you."

A woman. Loghain didn't know why, but the thought of it, the words, made something cold shiver through his very bones. _A woman_. He was trying to grasp it, searching for straws in the chaos of his jumbled memories, when a bolt like green lightning swept down from the breach, struck the bridge beneath them with a sound like metal thunder, and the stones beneath them were suddenly crumbling and they were falling with them.

As seasoned warriors with twenty summers less than he at a conservative guess, both women rolled to their feet without missing a beat. Loghain landed on his side and heard a loud crack, which he hoped was neither one of his bones, his bow, or the Blighted fucking _ice_. As two shades rose from the ice, forming from ink-black, whispering pools, he scrambled to his feet, and found that while he had snapped a bow in half in his descent, it had not, thankfully, been his own. The bruises would be bad if he survived the day, but his plan to stay back and use arrows was still logistically sound.

As Teyrn of Gwaren and Maric's, and then Cailan's, general, Loghain had used sword and shield or two handed swords when he had swept into battle, though he had never given up the peasant's trick of carrying several very sharp knives for use at close quarters. He hadn't wielded a bow in battle for more than thirty years, but there was something so cleansing, so peaceful about sending an arrow to a target that he frequently stole away hours in the middle of the night to shoot in the courtyard till his muscles ached with strain or the cold made him numb.

He nocked an arrow and waited, the 150 weight pull of the ironwood long bow tautening his shoulders and arms, but these demons were not unmoving targets, they were woven around by Cassandra and Cauthrien as they laid sword blows in furious rhythm. He allowed his breathing to change to the breathing of a combat archer, watched them weave and wend and- loosed the arrow.

With a sickening squeal, the shade evaporated into coils of black mist. A moment later, Cassandra obliterated the other. They stood for a moment, panting, then Loghain put his bow back into place, and wordlessly, they hiked across the ice toward their destination.

The demon presence was thicker as they pressed onward, some even falling directly from the Breach to assault the small party. After several such encounters, the shared camaraderie of the battle must have eased some of Cauthrien's concern, because she addressed Cassandra. "What you said yesterday. About things Ser Loghain has done. Do you not also realize the many, many wonderful things he has done for Fereldan? For Thedas?"

Loghain tensed, and wanted to ask her not to say such things. The alliance, if alliance it was, was a slapdash patch over a gaping hole, and he did not want to remind the Seeker of her animosity in the middle of a mad dash toward oblivion. But at the same time, Ser Cauthrien's loyalty touched him, and as it always did, reminded him of how pleasant it was to know there was at least one person in the world for whom he felt genuine affection. He could not interrupt her.

Cassandra did not answer for several minutes. When she did, what she said, in a tense, stilted tone was, "I was... angry." It was not an answer, and all three of them knew it, and the camaraderie of battle fell away for the next few minutes, until they reached the forward camp.

Something like a small Breach hovered there, at eye level, twisting in the middle of the air. It seemed obscene to Loghain, worse than the Breach, because he could have stretched out his hand to touch it, because it was a tiny tear, proof that there was not only the apocalyptic gap in the heavens, but many tiny wounds as well. That reality was a cloak that could not be mended in one go.

There were demons here, too. They swarmed upon well-armored Chantry protectors, a Templar at a guess, and a soldier. Solas was there, snapping spells with pinpoint precision from a bleached wood staff. Gore already spattered his smooth cheeks. There was also a dwarf, wearing an improbably garish red coat, his red-gold hair pulled back, stubbled and beardless yet with no Carta mark on his face. He manned a beautifully tooled, unique crossbow with a ruthless efficiency that Loghain mirrored as he put his bow into place.

From behind him, Cauthrien and Cassandra leapt into the fray.

When all the demons were vanquished, Loghain strode toward the rift. He startled when Solas suddenly grasped his wrist and lifted it. In that moment he felt something flare in the mark, and then a bolt of sheer power, agonizing and intense, poured down his arm. The rift pulsed and then, with a sound like a cannonade, vanished.

Loghain fought a breath. "So you were right," he said to Solas.

The elf smiled. "It seems so. You hold the key to our salvation."

Behind them, the dwarf blew out a sharp breath. "Good to know," he said, in a smooth and even storyteller's voice that shared no hint of where he came from. "Here I was, thinking we'd be ass-deep in demons forever."

Hurried introductions came next, and Loghain determinedly did not notice Cauthrien's blush when the dwarf introduced himself as Varric Tethras. Although Loghain had seen copies of Hard in Hightown and the Tale of the Champion in several shops and libraries over the years, he knew very well how enamored- almost addicted- the knight was with Tethras' bawdy serial Swords and Shields. He saved her, he hoped, by sweeping into the growling argument between the Lady Seeker and the dwarf. He was amused by how easily Varric seemed to annoy Cassandra, but supposed that sort of airy disregard for his own decisions would have put him into a similar froth.

The five of them fell into an easy rhythm. They raced forward, they fought, and ran again. Despite Solas' efforts, Loghain was starting to tire. He had shaved about twenty seven pounds off his kit, but the scale was not precisely light, and he was not used to this exercise. At first, he had been running ahead, with the two knights behind him. Now he was nearly in the rear, kept pace with by Varric, which given they both used bows was not inefficient, but worried Loghain given the distance still ahead.

"You know," Varric said, "if this were a novel, I think I could come up with some motives for the Lord Protector of Fereldan to blow up the Conclave. But this isn't a novel and I'm... having trouble seeing it. So what did happen?"

"Can't recall," Loghain replied. Varric did not deserve his clipped tone but he was growing weary of repeating himself.

"Hmm." Varric was quiet a little longer as they jogged onward, then he raised his voice so the fleeter-footed folks who had sped ahead, especially as they ascended stone steps up the mountain, could hear. "Has anyone considered that this might have been an assassination attempt against _Loghain_ , and not just Divine Justinia?"

No one had. Loghain considered it himself for a moment, before speaking out over the other responses. "Magic of this level isn't necessary to kill me. Whoever did this sought to flatten the Divine, and doubtless lost control of their spell. I cannot imagine anyone would do that," he gestured vaguely at the Breach, "a purpose."

Solas demurred. "The magic involved in the Breach is unlike any I have seen. I do not believe any mage has the power to create it."

"But it is magic," Loghain growled. "Magic doesn't simply create itself. A mage _must have_ created it."

Solas responded, and there was an edge in his voice, as well as a breathiness, perhaps from the effort of the stairs. "I apologize. I meant that I did not believe any mage had the power to create such a thing unaided. There must have been an artifact, some sort of device of power, utilized to cause this destruction."

"Would such a device have survived? Could it be used again?" Cassandra asked.

"It almost certainly would have survived," Solas said. "But be used again for such a purpose? No. I cannot imagine an object of such power. Still, if we could recover it, we could study it to better fight these rifts."

They fell again into silence after that. As they reached a second bastion bridge, Loghain's weariness brought him to the rear, even behind Varric. He clenched his fist, digging blood circles into his palm, and forced himself to move onward, faster. Midway through the bridge was a checkpoint where a man in Chantry robes stood alongside Sister Nightingale.

When they approached, he addressed Cassandra. "Ah, you have apprehended him then. Good."

Ser Cauthrien immediately drew her sword.

Cassandra made a placating gesture to her. "Peace," she said, and then turned to the man. "Chancellor Roderick, the Lord Protector has agreed to attempt to use the mark to seal the Breach. He is not a prisoner."

"Not a prisoner?" the Chancellor repeated, lifting his voice with the pitch and force of a man used to ranting and railing to get what he wanted. Just like dozens of arls and merchants Loghain saw every day. Why this paltry Brother thought he had enough weight to swing it into Loghain, he had no idea.

From his elbow, Leliana cut in. "The political ramifications of us attempting to arrest the leader of the country we stand in should be self-explanatory, Chancellor. At this point, it does us no harm and only potential good to send him at the Breach. No one would accept the authority of a Chantry Chancellor and a Seeker as enough to put Loghain Mac Tir in chains. We would require the authority of the Divine."

This stopped Roderick in his tracks. He looked as if he had just been forced to swallow darkspawn blood, but he gestured impatiently toward the sky. "I hope, Lord Protector," he said acidly, "that you choke on this nightmare you have dropped on us."

Loghain did not reply. They swept onward, and after a moment, Cauthrien muttered, "Toad."

They paused at the second bastion, and Cassandra and Leliana argued for a moment over the best route to the Temple. The moment Cassandra swung to Loghain and met his eyes, he spoke. "We must charge. I am sorry, ladies, but my condition is not what it should be. I must survive to see the Temple and we cannot dawdle."

There is something to be said for the morale of an army. Loghain's exhaustion did not lift miraculously from him, but the presence of so many men, all charging, all determined toward their goal, hardened his own resolve once more. His feet flew, churning mud through the melted snow, demon ichor sizzling into a slippery nothing beneath their boots. This was not the territory for bows. This was a quick, even reckless advance, and his shield arm was often the salvation of the man or woman next to him, and vice versa. It was a harsh, hacking battle, a chaos of bodies and blades. The sort of march that ballads and tales often made heroic, but in truth were only an exhausting bloody mess. Easy enough to swarm a chevalier and drag him to the ground, or to hack at a rage demon until the last of its sputtering fires went out. Loghain was only pleased that they fought no other men and women that day, so the brittle confusion and battle red that swept their vision was pinpoint directed. Despite this, he was acutely aware of every soldier who fell beneath claws and magic, and he was not the only one who bent double, hands on knees, fighting for breath and to avoid retching, when they finally reached the shell of the Temple.

Though some of its architecture remained, the Temple of Sacred Ashes bore no resemblance to what it had been. Figures twisted in rictus agony, their flesh burned close to their bones, crouched, knelt and lay among the blackened rubble. The ostentation of another age was charred and melted, and everywhere the sick green light turned this place of death into a hellscape.

In their advance, they had joined and absorbed the command of Ser Cullen, a handsome young man who wore a red lion skin over his armor and carried himself with the distinct posture of a former Templar. He reminded Loghain of Alistair, in more than one way. Here, amid this Temple of ghosts, they also caught up once again with Leliana, and after a brief conference, the forces spread out throughout the ruins while Loghain took his small band in search of better access to the Breach.

It was nearly impossible to parse the ruin's twists and turns, but from what he could tell, they had actually entered the building through a former wall and the forces gathered in what used to be a solar or sun room. The path he, Cassandra, Cauthrien, Varric and Solas took was down what used to be stairs and corridors toward a central courtyard. In fact, in a burst of irony, Loghain would not be surprised if this were actually the cavern courtyard where Andraste's ashes had once been stored. 

Any ceilings or roofs there once had been were gone now, except for arches and small strangely claustrophobic remnants they ducked under as they passed. The eerie, haunted atmosphere was not at all abetted by the echoes of booming voices which twisted through the wreckage, or by the glowing, _pulsing_ stalagmites of crimson lyrium which Varric uneasily ordered them all to stay away from.

"Now is the moment of our destiny," a deep, sonorous voice intoned. And then, "Keep the sacrifice still."

Loghain snarled. His head felt as if it wanted to crack itself in two, but even as a woman's voice cried out for aid, and even as he heard his own voice call back to her, he did not remember any of these events. He would not have known the woman as the Divine if Cassandra did not say that she was, and neither would he have trusted his own voice, his own familiar inflection, if Solas did not assure them these were echoes of memory in the Fade and not the tricks of some demon.

"I still do not recall," he said, lifting a hand to forestall the Seeker's questions. "But if these are truly echoes of what happened, then we know the motivation for the Breach. Whoever orchestrated this intended to sacrifice Divine Justinia, perhaps in order to activate the device they used."

They mulled this over, but there were no answers, only more questions. Instead, they approached the Breach. From this vantage point it did not seem so much like a sun, but more like the facsimile of one you might see in an orrery. Radiance like mist seeped from a central point that was crystalline, growing, crackling as it spun lazily in the air.

"The Breach is closed," Solas said, urgency darkening his usually mellifluent tones. "Albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, it can be opened and then closed permanently. However, this action will attract attention from the other side."

"That means demons," Cassandra added grimly, signaling to the troops behind them to fan out and stand ready.

It was not the triumphant charge that some fragment of Loghain's childhood, deep buried, had hoped, and not even the clean cauterization of the wound in the sky that he had anticipated. Instead, it was the sort of mad, messy last chance dash that he ought to have expected, but it was madder and messier than anything he'd been a part of before. Including the disaster that was Ostagar.

He almost argued, almost fought against the expectation that hung in a pall over them all. It was almost against his will, or it seemed so, as his arm lifted and the curious wave of energy ripped from his body, then yanked something back in a wild torrent through his palm. The Breach opened like a great staring eye.

And _oh, but there were demons_.

The ogre that crushed Cailan still featured prominently in many of Loghain's less pleasant dreams, but its remembered bulk, its wild eyes, its fetid breath, they were mere shadows of the _thing_ that formed in that courtyard. Its scaly hide, darker and thicker than that of a Great Bear, snapped the storm of arrows that were loosed against it. Worse, its myriad black eyes, deep-set within its misshapen skull, focused upon them with intelligent, malicious amusement.

It held a whip of wild, flexible lightning, which it wielded with a languorous disregard to scatter the melee combatants who harried at it. Even the tallest reached only to its knees, so they harried it, hacked at its hamstrings as the archers and the single mage shot shafts and bolts at higher, more vulnerable targets. Loghain drew back his bow again and again, each motion smooth, muscle memory carrying him past the panic that clawed its way up his throat.

He nearly fumbled an arrow when a whisper coiled around his mind, a gentle breath of words not his own thoughts, murmured, _What are you doing all the way back there, dear boy? Surely the Hero of River Dane is too proud to let all these unseasoned children fight in his place? DIE in his place._ Loghain's startled gaze met those of the demon: it was staring directly at him, black eyes sly and mocking.

Blood thundered in his ears, and for a moment he was so transfixed with fury that he barely heard Cassandra call out. "We must strip its defences!" His lips skinned back from his teeth like a feral dog itching to bite. But arrow after arrow, blow after blow, had done nothing to slow the demon's advance, fluid and unhurried despite its bulk. His palm itched, and he rubbed it against the hem of his scale hauberk before he reached back toward another arrow, taking several steps back to get better stock of the situation and to keep his shots clear of the other fighters. The green glow was almost subsumed by the waves of light that stretched from the Breach, shimmering and moving like curtains or diaphanous tentacles.

The laughter that teased his brain itched. _But of course, you never had any pride. You put up a good pretense of it, play arrogant sooo well for the masses, but how could someone have pride in himself when nobody was ever proud of HIM? You were always a disappointment, weren't you? Your father was only the first in a long line to look at you with those dead, disdainful eyes. You must know Alistair looks at you like that too, when your back is turned. It won't be long until even Cauthrien tires of your pretense._

It punched the air out of his lungs. He dropped the arrow. Dimly, he became aware that he was not the only one faltering. The demon's attentions were not for him alone. He set his teeth and stood, the bow loose in his hand. Yes, the son of a bitch deserved to be made vulnerable. Deserved to feel what it was it did to those around it. But how?

He scanned the battlefield, but at first saw nothing. Then like a sharp slap, his gaze was snapped back to what was so huge and looming he had merely overlooked it. He stretched his hand out to the Breach itself and _shoved_ with all his force.

As a side effect, wraiths scattered around them like a patter of rain, but they were weak things and easily mopped up by the soldiers. What was important was hearing the thin shriek, seeing the bulk of the demon sag as its proud and glittering armor faltered. With a wolfish smile, he loosed an arrow directly into one of those wicked, knowing eyes. Beside him another bowstring sang. The black-fletched arrow that struck the eye next to it was Leliana's.

Even with the knowledge that pulsing his power into the Breach could weaken the demon, the battle was still long and the enemy unyielding. Its whispered taunts twisted and jabbed at Loghain's mind, and some of the rank and file turned against each other. The sour bile that rose in his throat when they first shot down one of their own, raving and insensate, never was swallowed back down. The air itself stank, not only with blood and ichor, but with fear and madness as well. The demon was even crueler wounded, and sought to twist every good thing, every achievement, into something cowardly and hollow.

When it finally collapsed into a heap, it was not the only one. All around him Loghain heard the sound of metal greaves clacking against the cobblestones, saw archers sag against half-fallen walls with arms over their streaming eyes. The toll of this battle was not only in visible scars, and it would be a hard one.

Loghain caught himself on Cullen's shoulder. The young man's face was red and his eyes shone, but he had held back tears. Loghain squeezed, though he doubted Cullen even registered the pressure of fingers through his thick pauldrons, and then he stumbled toward the glowing rift in the sky.

He couldn't even classify what he felt as tired. He felt worn, like woolens thin enough to see through, like a stiff breeze would tear him open. _One more push_ , he thought, and lifted his hand.

If there was one thing in his life that he hoped to turn about, it was this lingering habit of waking up in strange bedrooms feeling as if he'd been trampled, with no pretty bedmate to make it worthwhile. This time, Loghain had not expected his eyes to ever open again. When they did, he blinked blearily at a mosaic tiled ceiling. Warm red wood beams and moldings had been darkened by years of candle smoke, and the air smelled heavy with beeswax and incense. A Chantry.

It was a well-appointed room, probably having belonged to one of the senior priests. The bed was wide, with rich woven blankets and elaborately carved head and footboards. He could see a chest filled to bursting with scrolls and potions, as well as a small bookcase equally bursting with volumes. A glass lamp cast flickering red light through the dim, and dust motes swirled in it, as if booted feet had had their recent way with an ill-maintained carpet.

The healer at his side was not Solas, but he recognized her as the chief of the chirurgeons in his regiment from Denerim. That meant his exhaustion had once again lost him days. It would have been at least three and perhaps more to see the regiment to Haven. He cleared his throat. "Sybil?"

She jerked away from what she'd been doing,- darning something, by the look of it-, and smiled warmly. "Thank the Maker you're awake, my Lord," she said. She turned away then and poured a glass of water, so Loghain couldn't read her face as she went on, hard voice fast in a patter that almost lost him. "Adan and I had a demon of a time seeing you through this. Your body was bruised and worn out, of course, but your mind was the frightening part. Reminded us for all the world of a mage being attacked in the Fade. We thought almost to have a Templar look over you, but we can't trust the bastards, can we? More'n half of 'em are renegades now. And then his Majesty arrived, and he'd have ruddy skinned us if we left a stranger at your bedside, now, wouldn-"

"Alistair is here?" Loghain interrupted. His voice was too deep, hoarse and rough, and he accepted the cup of water and drained it in one gulp.

"Yes, my Lord," Sybil replied. "He arrived two days ago, his charger half dead of a lather. Had another Warden with him. He's been conferrin' with the Lady Seeker and Commander Cullen, and he got the regiment situated in a strong reinforced camp west of Haven. But they'll all be wanting to see you, Lord Protector, as soon as you're able."

"All?" he repeated. He drank another cup of water when she refilled it.

"My Lord, no one has spoken of anything for the past week besides what you stopped the Breach from growing. They say you're a chosen one, a saint or some like. They say Andraste herself saved you from the Conclave, after you fought demons to save the Divine's life. They've dug up all the old ballads, and sing them in the taverns every night, and half the holy Sisters have carved your name on their candles when they light them for prayer."

"Maker's Breath," Loghain muttered, and scrubbed a hand over his face. A week? Had it been a week? It must have been, because there wasn't merely sharp stubble on his cheeks, but a new growth of beard. He needed a bath and a shave, and very likely a stiff shot of Antivan brandy to help him deal with this idiocy.

Chantry Sisters carving Saint Loghain on their candles? _Maker's Breath._

An hour and a half later, after a soak and scrub, freshly clean shaven and having chased down something to wear that wasn't twee, alarming, or a cassock, Loghain ventured into the Chantry's main vestibule to be confronted with Alistair, standing with Cassandra, supporting himself on a wooden pillar near a huddled tier of lit votives. Their faces were dour and Cassandra's arms were folded defensively, but they were very close together for two strangers talking, and their eyes never once left each other's faces, even when Loghain sauntered closer.

Cassandra noticed him first, her dark gaze flickering to him, and then Alistair noticed the shift of her attention. And then Alistair's arms were around him, a crushing embrace he was humiliatingly certain would lift him off his feet were he not a few inches taller than the youngest Theirin.

"Damn it, old man," Alistair growled. "You can't _do this_ to me. A runner brings me a note that just says you need my help, then I run halfway across Thedas just to find you out cold in a coma- bringing back some _lovely_ memories, too, that- and nobody knows a damn thing about it except it's magic."

A burst of guilt squeezed Loghain's heart as surely as Alistair had squeezed his torso. The young king of Fereldan still didn't know that Loghain was responsible for the malady that left Eamon Guerrin in a coma from which he had not woken. The fact that it had been meant only to be a sickness of a few weeks, and that Loghain could not have anticipated the demonic possession of Eamon's son Connor, did not assuage his self-disgust in that moment. He shoved the razors of his past wrongs back down and clapped Alistair on the shoulder.

"You know I despise sentiment, pup," he said. "Have soldiers been sent to inventory and defend the local communities?"

"Of course," said Alistair.

Cassandra added, "Ser Cauthrien and Ser Cullen have implented your list. We've relocated most of the survivors, which strains resources, but not nearly as much as stretching our border to encompass their homes. Some refugees have also joined our militia, and active training bouts occur hourly just outside the walls."

"The problem is that the rifts haven't stopped coming," Alistair said. "The demons haven't stopped coming. Between the former Chantry forces, the volunteers and the regiment, we have all the fighters we need, but we also have a burgeoning, swollen community full of healers, Sisters, elderly, women and children, and this is winter in the Frostbacks. There are enough meat animals nearby, but what grain stores we can take from the farms and this village are stretched thin. I've sent for a supply wagon from the palace granaries, but between the mage rebellion and opportunistic bandits, I'm not optimistic it will make it to us intact."

Loghain chewed the inside of his cheek. "By the sounds of it, it won't be only grain and vegetables that are our worry. Haven is barely a village. If it's stretched to its seams with refugees there will be trouble with sanitation, and that invariably leads to illness. Most of our regiment and our camp followers are secure outside the village?"

Alistair nodded.

"Have the camp followers and some strong volunteers build an extension to the village. Put it within our camp fortifications if you can. Nothing fancy, but warm huts, latrines, wind-breaks, snow-breaks. Perhaps some of the greener recruits might be put to work on this as well. Construction and digging build strong fighting muscle."

This time Cassandra nodded. "It will be done. However, logistics are not our only concern. The Breach is now stable, but it is still a threat. I hoped you and King Alistair would join our inner circle to discuss the route forward."

Alistair grinned, the expression suddenly making him look so bright, so young, and so much like Maric it struck Loghain like a bolt. "While you were sleeping," he said, " _Cassandra_ dug up this really lengthy, really terrifyingly lengthy, writ by the Divine ratifying a return of the Inquisition. They've broken from the Chantry, which really makes them this giant standing army within our borders. But I told them I'm fine with it."

Loghain narrowed his eyes. "The Inquisition? Why do you need a holy army to sweep across Thedas? You'll be mired down in politics before you can take a step, or worse, the Chantry will expect you to rein in their errant Templars, as the Inquisition begot the Seekers."

Cassandra shook her head. "It is not about that. We need to act, and to be able to act unfettered, we must exist as our own independent entity. Of course, Lord Protector, you and Alistair cannot exist as that, but as your allies, we have freedom to move in dimensions you may not."

He shook his head, but it was not his place to dissuade her. He understood how the Inquisition looked like freedom to her now, to Sister Leliana, to Ser Cullen. It certainly afforded them freedom from the likes of the barking little Chancellor, yet he did not see how the high-minded, battle focused Lady Seeker, the spymaster, and the Commander would manage an entire organization by themselves. With all the chaos, the Inquisition- a new, shining thing divorced from the mistakes of the past- would become a beacon, and more and more refugees would swell to their side. Who would tell them then about scurvy, about sickness from bad sanitation, and all the things that a lethal lay Sister, a Nevarran noble knight, and a former Circle Templar would never have seen?

He said none of that. Instead, he said, "I owe Alistair a drink and I have it on good authority this village has a tavern. You are welcome to join us, or we can meet you in a few hours."

Exiting the Chantry, he still flinched at that great, green rupture in the sky.


End file.
